Whatever I once had as a writer appears irretrievably lost. – Maybe you’re looking too hard. I just went through this for the last year. I’m (hopefully) finishing an MFA this fall, and I’ll be damned if I hadn’t forgotten how to be myself this last school year. All I needed was to suddenly stop caring so much, and I love writing again.

They all appear happier after [giving up art]. – “Ignorance is bliss, but it’s also ignorance.” — zimdog (as far as I know)

I’m tired of being the invisible man. – Isn’t it usually the heavily compromised writers that get published? Not that I’m a history-ologist or anything, but celebrated writing seems to remain invisible until it can be understood.

I fit into no group. – That’s what makes you a good writer.

I’m just finally accepting it and moving on. – Sounds to me like you’re giving up.

I think it’s safe to say every writer’s dream is happiness from recognition. It’s even safer to say this is nearly always a pipe dream. This is part of what makes writing important: suffering, the gift that keeps us humble.

You sound very depressed. I have a feeling that your impulse to stop writing at this point is largely due to the pain you’re experiencing caused by the person who is choosing a loveless relationship. Writing can be a lifeboat, too, in addition to the feelings of isolation it often seems to bring–sometimes you just have to grab onto it. I hope you keep writing. Take care.

I myself daily pit fear of failure against failure to try, so I empathize with the inclination to abandon it all. But it’s a siren’s call, and I for one would do what I could to help, even if it’s just to share the proverbial beeswax when I find it.